He eased the MG down the drive and parked it discreetly to the side of the Cadillac. A flagstone path led to the front entrance of the house, two massive oaken doors that seemed to require a sweating slave and gong more than a mere doorbell. It rang loud interior chimes, audible despite the thickness of the highly polished wood. He stepped back, into the bright sunlight.
Charley expected a servant, but it was Madeleine herself, unchanged, tall and slender, blond hair falling across large blue eyes, the fairest of skin. She was dressed elegantly, in matching pale blue slacks, blouse, and hair ribbon, a gold belt at her narrow waist and a gold scarf at her throat. She stared at him a moment, hesitant, her lips parted but not in speech. Then she stepped back into the shadow of the hall, nearer the shelter of the heavy door.
“It’s me. Charley Dresden.”
“Yes. I see,” she said. Her voice was softer than he remembered, and lower. But not happier.
“I need to speak with your husband.”
“With George?”
“Yes. It’s quite important. To me, anyway.”
She stepped back still farther. He feared she might slam shut the door.
“He’s not here, Charley. He’s in Washington. You could have telephoned first.”
“Your number’s unlisted.”
“Yes. It cuts down on the late-night calls from rejected swains in saloons.”
“I only did that once, and it was years ago.”
“George isn’t here.”
“May I talk with you then? I need some help.”
“I have a guest, Charley.”
“I won’t take long.”
They stared into each other’s eyes. She finally surrendered.
“All right. For a few minutes.”
He bowed slightly, borrowing some of the formality of his Prussian ancestors, and entered. She gave him a quick glance, then led him along the tile-floored hall, around a corner, and down into an enormous living room. One entire wall was given to floor-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors. A large sunlit terrace filled with flowers was visible beyond. The bay was crisply blue in the late-afternoon sunshine, and the hills and mountains on the other side clearly visible. A woman was seated on one of several couches placed about the room. She turned and smiled crookedly but pleasantly. She was as blond as Maddy, but unlike her—larger, tanner, healthier looking in an outdoor, western way, with wrinkles at the corners of her eyes Charley could see even at that distance.
“Stephie, this is Charley Dresden, an old friend. He just dropped in out of absolutely nowhere. I haven’t seen him in years and years.”
“Two,” said Charley.
The woman kept smiling, extending her hand as Charley came near. “Stephanie Pernell,” she said. Her speech was slightly slurred. There were the remnants of a gin and tonic on the glass tabletop before her. The ice had melted.
“You may even have met before,” Maddy continued, her hostess’s pleasantries failing to distract from a slightly troubled look in her eyes. “Stephie was at Santa Linda State when I was there.”
“I still live in Santa Linda,” Charley said. “Or work there. My house is in the mountains west of there. In Tiburcio.”
“I live here. Down the road. My husband’s Rob Pernell. The banker? He’s in Japan. Always in goddamn Japan.”
Dresden’s eyes again went to her glass.
“Stephie,” said Maddy, “we have to call George. That’s why Charley stopped by. He thought George might be here.”
“Take your time. I’ll just finish my drink.” She did so with one quick gulp, then held the empty glass very obviously in front of her.
“Stephie. Rob’s coming home tonight. What you could use most of all is a nap.”
The woman didn’t budge. “Plenty of time for that, Maddy. Plenty of time for naps when he comes home.”
“He’s been away a month, Steph. Why don’t you try for a happy homecoming?” Maddy stepped forward and took the woman’s glass. “Charley, would you step out and see the view from the terrace while I go out with Stephie to her car.”
Dresden nodded to the Pernell woman and did as he was commanded. As he let the glass door slide closed behind him, he glanced back and saw Maddy leading the woman away.
The terrace and garden were a splendor, perfectly designed and meticulously tended, obviously a matter of some pride to her. He wondered how much time she spent in this house—alone. Senators were always traveling. He paused before some of the flower beds and shrubs, recognizing few of them. Charlene would know what they were. Charlene would appreciate living in such a place. Dresden would not. It reminded him too forcefully of the grand house his father’s failure had compelled him to leave in Westchester.
The air was cooler here on the shady side of the house; the breeze, when it blew, almost chilly. Those on the tiny sailboats below would be dressed warmly. Leaning against the stone wall at the terrace’s edge, he stared down at their distant lives, guessing idly at their cares and secrets. If they looked up at the far remove of this ridge, they might imagine a reunion of two former lovers, but certainly not a conversation about a dead president.
There was color in Maddy’s face when she returned, lingering disgust and frustration in her expression.
“If nothing else, you gave me an excuse to put an end to that,” she said. “I think Stephanie’s been drinking all day. She had four while she was over here. I probably should have driven her home.”
“She didn’t look that bad off.”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you, Charley? Well, she’s that bad off emotionally. Her husband is away as much as George is, and she just doesn’t know how to cope with it.”
“How do you cope with it?”
“Very nicely, thank you. Now why are you here, Charley? Really.”
“I’d really like to talk to your husband. I really would like his help. There’s something he should know, would want to know.”
“Well, you can’t talk with him; not that he’d want to talk to you; not that I’d know where to find him. They’re supposed to be conferring somewhere on the budget vote—on how they’re going to manage it with the president wounded. George wouldn’t be very happy to know you’re here, Charley. I presume you know that.”
“I know that.”
“It’s going to be bad enough when he finds out. Stephie will talk about it. She’s really quite uncontrollable.”
Maddy shivered. He felt an impulse to put his arm around her, and almost gave in to it. As though sensing his intent, she stepped to the side.
“I’m sure you want a drink, Charley. I’ll give you one. Then you’ll have to go. You’re complicating my day.”
Once back inside, it took her only a brief moment to bring him a glass of very expensive scotch whiskey, along with one for herself. To his surprise, when he seated himself in the place just abandoned by Mrs. Pernell, Maddy sat next to him. She was sending such contradictory signals.
“All right, Charley Dresden, friend of my youth. How can we help you?”
“The president’s dead.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s dead. He was shot to death at Gettysburg, and I can prove it. I want your husband to know about it.”
“Prove it how?”
“I’ve studied the videotapes. With an expert. We’re convinced there were two wounds, not one, and that the second one was fatal.”
He went on to explain in careful detail the technicalities of videotape editing and production and how they permitted minute examinations of visual and audial events. He proceeded to relate the details of the assassination attempt with similar methodology, interspersing electronics with descriptions of the gore, adding his own amateur criminology where necessary.
“That’s appalling.”
“Yes.”
“You have all this on tape?”
“Yes. It will be on television tonight, on Channel Six. ‘The Jimmy Moon Show.’ I’m one of his guests. I taped the show this aft
ernoon.”
“George calls it ‘The Jimmy Loon Show.’ He was almost trapped into appearing on it once. How did it happen to you?”
“I more or less asked for it. There wasn’t any other way to get what I have to say on the air.”
“Truly appalling.”
“It’s all true.”
“If it is, why aren’t they telling us? Why would they keep something like that secret?”
“I’ll leave it to people like George to figure that out. All I know is what I know. The president is dead.”
She pressed the rim of her glass against her lips. He could see the years in her face now, but they had been kind to her. There was a bit of melancholy, perhaps, but nothing harsh. He hadn’t asked if she had children. He could see no trace of any child’s habitation in the room.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Watch the show. If you have a home recorder, record it. Tell George. Show him.”
“Nothing about this will please him.”
“I didn’t come here to please him.”
“Well, you’re not going to stay here to watch ‘The Jimmy Moon Show,’ Charles Dresden. Don’t get any ideas about that. I’m not sure I’m even going to turn that awful program on.” Her gaze shifted to the windows. The advancing darkness had merged the bay with the shadows of the opposite hills. She took a deep breath, and then a sip of her drink. “Stay for dinner, Charley. I’ve had no company but Stephanie for days. It will be good to talk to you without interruption for once.”
Since her marriage to Calendiari, they had met only in public places—cocktail parties, receptions, at Santa Linda’s Channel Three when her husband had announced his candidacy for the Senate, in shopping malls, and once even at the beach at Capitola, their only really amicable meeting. But never alone. In their encounter at the beach, they had progressed no further than a few pleasantries when Zack had come upon them, impressed to learn that Charley knew a U. S. senator’s wife. Madeleine had not looked impressed with Zack.
“You’re sure this is all right?” he said.
“No, it’s not all right. But since I’m to pay a penalty anyway, you might as well stay a little longer.” She rose. “I’d better turn on some lights.”
She turned on just one, added soft guitar music from a Wyndam Hill tape on the stereo, and then left him. He heard the small sound of her heels crossing the hard floor of a distant room. After that, more faintly, came kitchen noises.
He turned his attention to the music, a quiet, contemplative, solitary pleasantness, each note a tone struck in crystal. He drank and leaned back his head, inhaling the lingering scent of her perfume. Zack and Tracy Bakersfield were beautiful creatures of nature. Madeleine was a refinement, a distillate of the excellences of life. He remembered coming to her San Francisco apartment when no one was there, finding a note left for him taped on a bottle of jug burgundy. It had ended with “Poverty means you must drink wine instead of sipping it.” Maddy always sipped of everything.
It had been Calendiari wine.
He went to join her in the kitchen, helping himself to some more scotch.
“We’re having fettucine,” she said. “I’ve come to detest Italian food, but pasta is all we ever seem to have.”
“I recall you never cared for Mexican food, either.”
“You know us Scandinavians. Just give us a piece of dried fish.”
“Are you happy, Maddy?”
“You’ve no idea, Charley.”
“I mean with everything, with your life.”
“Perfectly, Charley. Everything about it has exceeded my wildest expectations. I’ve even been to a banquet in the Kremlin, did you know that? I made a very eloquent toast in my Santa Linda State Russian. And you, Charley? How is life with the remarkable Mr. Dresden?”
“Much the same as it’s always been, I suppose. Not much different than when we, when we used to date.”
“Then you’re not very happy.”
“Well, often that’s true, Maddy. But I’m also often very content. And sometimes I’m quite joyous. I’m beginning to feel that way right now. It’s so damn good to see you again.”
She looked away, returning her attention to the preparation of the meal. She served it with an expensive wine, which they both sipped slowly, the conversation far outlasting the dinner. He talked mostly about Tiburcio, leaving out much mention of Zack. Maddy spoke of Washington, matching him anecdote for anecdote, the two places so antithetical. He followed her tale of the Canadian ambassador’s bizarre arranged marriage with a recounting of a night in the Tiburcio Saloon and Grocery when a group of them at the bar became blood brothers with a drunken Indian and frightened the saloon’s subsequent patrons with their unexplained bloody palms.
She laughed, the first time that evening. After dinner he asked for a brandy and she brought him what must have been one of Calendiari’s costliest bottles. When he poured himself a second she did not complain, but she did object when, as their arms brushed, he reached and kissed her hand. She pulled it away almost violently. They had returned to the huge living room and were sitting on a couch. To his surprise, she did not leave his side. He stared into the amber iridescence of the cognac, fantasizing about what he desired to come to pass, then took a large gulp.
“I should go,” he said. It was a flat statement.
A long silence followed. She kept her face from him, staring at the now dark wall of windows with only a few distant lights visible through it. She began turning her wedding ring on her finger as she finally spoke.
“If you go now, you won’t get home in time to see your all-important television show.”
“No,” he said.
She sighed, too emphatically for simple resignation.
“All right, Charley. You can watch ‘The Jimmy Moon Show’ with me. But then you absolutely must go. You’re upsetting me. I think I’m going to feel very bad about this tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No. It’s too late. Pour me a brandy too.”
Watching “The Jimmy Moon Show” was a mistake, in every way a mistake. They had to forsake the warmth and comfort of the couch for Calendiari’s study for a convenient television set. The room was cold, the furniture uncomfortable, the mood dispelled. Moon, his audience, and the general conduct of the program were more embarrassing, abusive, and humiliating than he remembered. The duration of the assassination tape seemed much shorter than before, though he could identify nothing left out. The audience reaction afterward was much more hostile than he recalled. There were even shouts and catcalls that he must have simply put out of his mind at the time. A commercial for a used-car dealer featuring a near-naked woman followed, and then another advertising a laxative. When the program resumed the man in the camouflage fatigues was sitting in Charley’s place on the set. He held a hatbox on his lap that he said contained evidence that the enemy was using headhunters in the war in Central America.
“That is quite enough of that,” said Maddy, rising and snapping off the set. Now the room seemed very cold indeed. “I still don’t understand your tape. Those little pink flecks could be anything.”
“Yes, they could. And I suppose at this point it might be just as well to leave it at that, except for my bet at Antoine’s.”
“Antoine’s? The restaurant in Santa Linda?”
“I have a bet there with Jim Ireland, who owns Channel Three, a bet on whether the president’s dead. I’ll consider this show and tape my proof.”
“A bet on the president’s death? For what?”
“The stakes are whether I’m ever allowed to go into Antoine’s again.” He studied his brandy again, keeping his eyes from hers. It was his fourth. Why had he allowed himself to have so much to drink this evening? What other shameful thing was he about to reveal?
After a silence Maddy finally spoke. “All right, Charley. I’m not going to throw you out into the cold, or down the mountain. Henry’s press secretary wouldn’t be very pleased with news stori
es about guests getting arrested for drunk driving. You can stay the night. In the guest room. By yourself. Don’t come pawing at my door. I’m going back to Washington tomorrow and I need an early start. I don’t want you to bother me any more than you have.”
She stood up, her expression very cold. She seemed infuriated by something, though not necessarily him.
She took him past the curving staircase that led to the bedrooms above and instead went down the hall to a guest room on the main floor.
“It has its own bath, through there,” she said. “There are clean towels in the closet, disposable razors, toothpaste, toothbrushes, everything you need. I suggest you leave before the morning gets much underway. We have neighbors, and George has family nearby. Stephie Pernell is going to have enough to say as it is.”
By Order of the President Page 17
